The Shield of Rome

by William Kelso

  “What is it?” Titus asked in alarm.

  Numerius didn’t answer. He stared at the slave on the porch. Then he started to run. As he drew nearer he could see that the front door was open.

  “What’s going on?” he yelled.

  The slave looked up and jumped to his feet at the sight of his master. There were tears in the man’s eyes. Then as Numerius approached he fell to his knees whimpering shamelessly.

  “What’s going on?” Numerius repeated in a steadier voice.

  “Master, I am so sorry,” the slave whimpered, “we did what we could and the gardener is dead. We tried to stop them but they were too many and they were armed. Forgive me, master, forgive us.”

  “Who did this?” Numerius stopped and stared through the doorway into his house with growing alarm.

  “Armed men Sir, I don’t know who they were.”

  “What were they after?” but as he asked the question Numerius already knew the answer. He staggered backwards as if someone had struck him.

  “They took her away, they took Pompeia,” the slave sobbed miserably.

  “Oh gods,” Numerius groaned.

  Chapter Twentyfour – In the year of the consulship of Centho and Tuditanus

  Adonibaal crouched in the darkness listening out for the tell tale sounds of pursuit but he could hear nothing apart from the high pitched squeals of the rats and the drip of water on water. The sewage had drenched the folds of his tunic. It was cold and disgusting. His torch had died and he was alone in total darkness. He could feel his beating heart as he recovered from his shock. He’d gotten so close to his target, so damned close. His brother’s sudden appearance had utterly surprised him. It was as if Numerius knew his every move he thought despairingly, always showing up at the crucial moment. Twice now he had failed. Would he ever get close enough to Fabius for a third attempt? The man would take every precaution he could. His task was growing harder and harder. Numerius, Numerius, he thought fighting a sudden and growing sense of panic, was it his brother’s role in life to always thwart him? Had some demon ensured that Numerius would always be against him?

  He tried to calm himself. It was a simple of matter of survival. Fabius must die so that he could live. For how else could he Adonibaal return home and take back what belonged to him. How else could he give up this awful life which he had been forced to lead. There was no future for him in Rome as long as Fabius lived.

  He spat into the darkness as he felt his resolve return. He would win. He always did. If his brother tried to stop him again he would kill him. Nothing and nobody was going to stop him now from taking back what was rightfully his.

  He felt the reassuring presence of Centurion in his hand. The cold iron calmed him like only an old friend can do. Numerius had not dared to come after him into the narrow tunnel. His brother was scared and the knowledge seemed to give him some comfort. But Numerius was cunning. His brother had always been cunning. Instead of coming after him into the sewers and finishing it himself he would move quickly to seal off all the exit points and then starve him out. That was his brother’s style. He would have to move fast Adonibaal thought, if he was to escape the net that was being drawn around him. He paused to think. His only real hope was to try and get out of the sewers where they flowed into the Tiber.

  He spat again into the darkness and turned his head from side to side peering into the blackness. But which way should he go? There was no light and nothing in the darkness to give him a clue. If he blundered and went the wrong way it would all be over for him. With an effort he slowed his breathing and cocked his head but the noises in the Cloaca provided no clues either. Fuck. Then he felt it; the slight tug of a current at his clothes. He gasped in sudden elation. That was it! How stupid of him not to notice the current. All he had to do was to follow the current and it would lead him to the Tiber. Immediately he started forwards, feeling his way along the walls with his hands. The stone tunnel was slippery and seemed to turn frequently. It would not do to injure himself on sharp rock or other obstacle. He slowed his pace pausing now and then to listen but still there was no sound of a pursuit.

  As he waded through the tunnel he was struck again by Numerius’ odd shouted comment.

  Caeso, you have a daughter.

  If it had been meant to distract him it had worked. Now he pondered on the strange meaning. Whilst he’d been in Rome he had been faithful to Flavia. She had given birth to a daughter whom he’d never seen, but they had told him that the baby had died alongside Flavia during birth. Had the child survived then and grown into an adult? Had they lied to him about her death? Had those bastards hidden her existence from him? Was that what Numerius had been trying to tell him?

  It was all tricks and lies he thought savagely. Tricks intended to distract and hurt him, lies to trap and finish him. It was just the sort of thing Numerius would do, the coward. He sighed as if in pain. But what if Numerius was telling the truth? What if his daughter had really survived? He steadied himself against the damp wall. Matters were becoming complicated. He had to hold onto the simple truths, Fabius had to die, so that he Adonibaal could live. That was the only truth that mattered.

  Despite the darkness in the tunnel he forced himself to start moving faster. His clothes were soaked to the waist now as he splashed through the tunnel swearing as his feet banged into hidden obstacles. Minutes seemed to last for hours and still the tunnel continued. He passed a disused duct which had been blocked up. Then just as he was about to despair of ever finding the river he felt a gentle breeze touch his cheek. No his senses were not playing tricks. The air was becoming less foul. He splashed on holding his arms out in front of him like a blind man feeling his way along the walls. Then as he rounded a bend he noticed a tiny light. He waded towards it breathing hard and cried out in relief. As he drew closer he could make out the low vaulted tunnel exit and the passive waters of the Tiber beyond. The river level was low and reeds partially blocked the sewers path. He paused by the tunnel exit sucking fresh air into his lungs and allowing his breathing to calm. It was night and the sky was filled with bright stars.

  The Tiber’s current was strong and it took all his remaining energy to swim across to the far bank. He dragged himself ashore and lay panting on his back amongst the reeds. Upstream he could see the torch lights on the Sublicus and Aemilian bridges and he guessed the Cloaca’s exit was somewhere between the two bridges for the current had swept him under one of them and deposited him a few hundred yards downstream. Behind him he could make out the dark shape of the Janiculum hill. He lay for a while watching the stars and recovering his strength and as he did so he realised something. He needed to know if Numerius had spoken the truth. The need to know was powerful. If indeed he had a daughter within the city then he needed to find her. He needed to see her, to know if she was indeed his.

  “So you wish to bring us together do you, brother”, he whispered. Oh Numerius was cunning alright, using the idea that he had a daughter as the bait with which he would trap and capture him. And yet as his eyes closed and he began to drift off to sleep, Adonibaal was aware that the dread of being captured had lost some of its potency.

  It was light when he woke with a start. A small cargo ship was drifting by on the Tiber and he could see the helms man on her deck and the graceful row of oars dipping quietly into the water. His hand closed around Centurion and then he swore as he saw his surroundings. He was utterly exposed. He should have moved to a better hiding place during the night when he had the chance. He stared at the bridges upstream. There were armed men on them and as he watched them he saw a patrol of soldiers on the eastern shore inspecting the river bank. Directly across from him was the Emporium, the river docks where the traders loaded and unloaded their goods. Even at this hour it was a hive of activity.

  He twisted onto his stomach and glanced up at the Janiculum. The road to Ostia led up the hill disappearing amongst the trees. The hill seemed to remind him of something, he frowned, something important. Something some
one had told him. Then he remembered. Hadn’t Janus said that his brother had a house up there? For a moment he stared towards the top of the hill. Then he smiled as he had a sudden idea. His brother was about to be out manoeuvred.

  He began to crawl through the tall reeds towards the highway. As he drew closer he noticed the numerous grave stones with the names of the dead inscribed on them lining the road. He could see no traffic and as he reached the higher and rockier ground he got up and crouched behind one of the head stones. A copse of trees higher up the hill caught his attention and he straightened up and half ran, half walked towards them. The trees were clumped together and just behind them was a shallow ditch. He dropped down into it and lay down on his stomach. From his hiding place he had a clear view of the road leading up from the river. Satisfied he made himself as comfortable as possible and settled down to wait.

  It was some time later when he noticed the solitary man coming towards him. There had not been much traffic on the road until then and Adonibaal had struggled to keep his eyes open. However there was something familiar about the distant figure that jolted him out of his slumber. The man had already crossed the bridge and was starting to ascend the hill. Adonibaals sharp eyes widened and he blushed with sudden uncharacteristic nervousness. The figure was that of his brother. Numerius was alone and he would be level with him very soon.

  For a moment Adonibaal pondered what to do. His original plan had been to wait for Numerius to come up the road on his way home. He would then follow his brother to see where he lived and then wait until it was dark before breaking into the property and confronting Numerius in the privacy of his own home. His brother would know how to get to Fabius. The two men were friends after all. Now however, as Numerius approached rapidly, he realised that he hadn’t expected him to be on his own. Maybe the time to take him was now on this road. Excitedly he peered at the approaching figure. Numerius seemed to be deep in thought, oblivious to his surroundings. He walked with a slight limp and he was unarmed. Not that Adonibaal was worried about that. His brother had never been a match for him when it came to a fight. He made up his mind and readied himself to burst out of the copse. Numerius drew level and Adonibaal was about to rise when he heard a shout and from the corner of his eye saw a man running up the road towards them. Instinctively he froze in his hiding place. Numerius was five yards away and turned to look at the newcomer who had called out his name.

  The two men spoke briefly and then started up the hill. From his ditch Adonibaal watched them until they were nearly out of sight. Then silently he rose to his feet and followed. The two men continued up the hill until they came to a villa. As they approached the house Adonibaal could see a slave sitting beside the front door. The man had his hands clasped around his head as if he was in agony. That was odd. Adonibaal crouched beside a large boulder and watched his brother speak to the slave. They were too far away for him to hear their conversation accurately but he noticed how Numerius’ shoulders seemed to slump. Then the two men rushed into the house and disappeared. They re-appeared again within a minute heading straight towards the place where Adonibaal was hiding. Adonibaal kept very still as they passed him, heading back towards the city. He caught a glimpse of his brother’s face. Puzzled he watched Numerius disappear down the hill. He’d seen that same expression a thousand times before on the faces of his victims in Utica when they’d known they had been caught. It was a dangerous look. It was the look of a man with nothing left to lose.

  When his brother had gone Adonibaal turned to look at the villa. He stood up, stretched and started towards the house. The slave had disappeared but the front door was still open. He paused at the entrance and wondered whether he should call out but it was not necessary. The slave had returned and stood looking at him blankly. The man had been crying. Over the man’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of smashed and broken furniture and blood stains on the neatly tiled floor.

  “Is this the house of Numerius Fabius Vibulani?” Adonibaal asked.

  “He is my master,” the slave sniffed, “What do you want?”

  “What happened here?” Adonibaal gestured towards the broken furniture.

  The slave folded his arms across his chest. “Who wishes to know?” he replied guardedly.

  Adonibaal fixed his eyes on the man.

  “Is your master at home?”

  The slave hesitated. “He is not, he just left, if you have come from Rome you would have met him on the road,” the man’s face suddenly grew suspicious, “Who wishes to know?” he repeated.

  “I have come from Ostia,” Adonibaal said, “Tell your master that his brother called on him and that he sends his greetings.”

  The slave suddenly looked unsure of himself. He peered at Adonibaal curiously.

  “His brother,” he muttered to himself, “I did not know my master had a brother.” Then he recovered his composure. “Will you care to wait till my master returns?”

  “Yes I shall,” Adonibaal said stepping past the slave into the hallway. He stopped and looked down at the blood stained tiles.

  “Maybe now you can tell me what has happened here?” he said glancing around the wrecked room.

  The slaves face darkened and his lower lip trembled.

  “The master of the house has gone to find his daughter,” the man muttered, “We were attacked in the night and they took her away.”

  “Who attacked you?” Adonibaal turned sharply to look at the man.

  “Men who have no respect for the sanctity of a vestal virgin,” the slave replied bitterly. He turned away so that Adonibaal would not see his emotion and so he missed seeing the curious glint that had suddenly appeared in Adonibaals eye.

  “Forgive my apparent ignorance for I have not seen my brother in many years as you will know,” he said smoothly, “but remind me again the date on which our Vestal daughter was born?”

  “The sixteenth day of March,” the slave whimpered.

  “And the year?”

  “In the year of the consulship of Centho and Tuditanus.”

  “Thank you,” Adonibaal said as the colour slowly drained from his cheeks.

  Chapter Twentyfive – Captive

  Pompeia rushed to the doorway of her room as she heard the strangled cry of alarm from the hallway. It was followed moments later by a loud crash and the splintering of glass. It was the middle of the night and she had been asleep. She was still clad in her night clothes, a long flowing white dress that was barely thick enough to hide her body. In the atrium with its small square fountain and fine mosaic floor her father’s gardener was grappling with an intruder. Someone screamed. It was the cook’s high pitched female voice. Then before she could open her mouth the intruder, a tall man clad entirely in a black tunic stabbed the gardener and pushed him to the ground. More men, also clad in black appeared from the hallway.

  “Mistress, hurry, this way,” her father’s man servant shouted to her from the door leading to the garden. The man beckoned to her urgently but she didn’t move. Instead she turned to face the intruders. There were six of them now, all clad in black and they were advancing towards her. She could see the knives in their hands. On the floor the slave lay still as a large pool of dark red blood spilled out onto the mosaic.

  “How dare you enter my father’s house like this,” she cried angrily gathering the folds of her night clothes around her.

  The intruders said nothing as they surrounded her. Then a huge man with a pockmarked face and thick protruding lips grasped both of her hands by the wrists forcing them together. Her hands were swiftly bound together with a length of rope.

  “Who are you?” Pompeia said without struggling.

  The man with the protruding lips sneered. “You are coming with us. The high priest has declared that you are to stand trial.”

  Pompeia knew it was pointless to resist. The men in black were hired men, probably working for the college of Pontiffs. It didn’t matter. They had their orders. She was not surprised. She had been expecting them f
or some time now and now that they had she felt strangely relieved.

  “It is alright,” she turned to the man servant who was still standing in the doorway leading to the garden, “Tell my father what has happened and attend to the gardener. He was a brave man. My father should know what he tried to do.”

  The slave was crying and unable to answer.

  “This way,” the man with the lip snarled tugging at the rope that bound her hands.

  “No,” she said firmly, “I will not go to the temple like a common prisoner. Untie my hands and I shall promise not to try and escape.”

  The leader of the intruders paused as he thought about it.

  “Alright, if you promise?” he growled.

  She nodded. “And I wish to change my clothes,” she said, “If I am to stand trial then I will do so in the robes of a Vestal Virgin.”

  ***

  The high priest and his secretary Metellus had been smart to have her arrested in the middle of the night she thought as she was marched into the city. At this hour the streets of Rome were deserted and there was no one about to see what was being done to her. Ever since Metellus had raped her she had known that the priests could not change their minds. She was being used like a sacrificial animal, supposedly to appease the angry gods and grant Rome fortune in battle, but in reality the priests were using her to further their own power. She wanted to laugh. The system was rotten to its core but Vesta would not allow her to die.

  Her captors took her to the Regia, an irregular pentagonal complex in the forum just yards from the temple of Vesta. The Regia was the place where the old kings of Rome used to live. Now the spot was the official residence of the Pontifex Maximus, the supreme religious authority. It was here at the Regia that the college of Pontiffs would come to gather. It was here that the college’s archives and administrative documents were kept alongside the complicated instructions on how to perform the sacred religious rites and the laws that governed marriage, death and wills. It was the place too where Mars, the god of war had his shrine and where his ceremonial spears were kept. The spears were only ever used when Rome declared war when they would be symbolically hurled onto enemy land. The Regia was a place where few liked to go for it was rumoured that people who entered through its gates had a habit of never being seen again.